


Hawk and Wolf

by wearwind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aveline&Wesley Origin Story, F/M, Gen, Hanged Man shenanigans, Hawke is a dork, Long Shot, Slow Burn, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, hunting hamsters, my God it does take ages for them to get together, translating my own fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6357367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plot in the Chantry, Varric, Isabela's drunken songs, lyrium smugglers, and Aedale Hawke, the most obvious apostate of the City of Chains. And Fenris. What could possibly go wrong? A romance with an adventure on the forefront.</p><p>F!Mage!Hawke, long shot, slow burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Observations

Elves did not wear beards. Aedale Hawke was positive of it.

 _Happy genetically depilated folk,_ she thought dryly, recalling the fascination that Merrill seemed to have for Varic’s shameless fur pouring out of the ever-unbuttoned shirt. It appeared that chest chair was the elven equivalent of what a smooth, perfectly shaven skin was to humans – an unattainable ideal. Isabela informed her once – _that woman gets way too much satisfaction out of the sight of other people’s furious blushing –_ that yes, she could testify that elves are smooth _everywhere._

Except the head. Unless they shaved their heads too. What for, though? Without practice on other… planes of the body you could cut off the top of your head. Aedale eyed Fenris’ short hair – and then lengthened her stride to walk alongside him, staring at his jaw, very conveniently placed directly at her line of sight.

The elf caught her glance and raised an eyebrow.

“Hawke?”

Aedale coughed. “I zoned out.”

_Does he shave?_

It was her little private obsession, which, if Varric ever caught wind of that, would be mocked mercilessly. _What’s that, Hawke, a little beard fetish? Shall I remind you who was the last guy with a glorious beard that we met? Sure you may not remember, it’s not too important, just a little blood traitor who left us all for a painful death in the endless maze of the Deep Roads. Wanna tell me something, huh?_

Aedale could almost hear the heavy sarcasm in Varric’s voice. She shook her head. It wasn’t the dwarven beards; dwarven beards were nothing worth a fetish. Actually, no one’s beard was worth a fetish. There was just one face whose beard, or the lack thereof, interested her. That face with thin, pale lips, dark skin – contrasting his completely white hair – and surprisingly big, dark, shining eyes of the colour of sandy green.

His cheeks were never as silk-like smooth and soft as ones she observed at other elves – particularly for the comparative purposes. They looked exactly like a carelessly shaved skin should look like, rough, dark and rugged. He had to shave. Aedale did not know any other way for a skin to look like that.

Then again, nothing in Fenris was like other elves. They were delicate, soft, even the men – especially the men – with the look of a wounded puppy which they probably had inherited after their Arlathan ancestors. (She spared a moment to imagine how, in the olden days, every elven child would be brought in front of a batch of puppies to learn and imitate their expressions.) Everything in them was subtle, light, gentle, like a touch of a raven’s feather or a fluffy squirrel’s tail. Even the Dalish, wild and distrustful, kept the abundance of this fragile charm.

And Fenris… No. If it were possible, she would think he were not a pureblood elven – but he was, obviously, it wasn’t how the genetics worked, if he were halfblood he’d be human. But the masculine genes of the entire race, greedily saved by entire generations of elves, accumulated in his tall frame, transforming weakness into agility, gentleness into sharpness, fragility into power full of predatory grace. He kept the unnatural thinness of his race, framing it with impressive muscle nevertheless; long white hair fell on his neck like a wolf’s mane. Gone was the sweet smoothness of the little elven faces; it was replaced by sharply drawn, masculine jaw and rough dark skin. Only the customary pointed ears and big eyes affirmed his belonging to the species; but even in his eyes there was a lurking shadow of fierceness, a dark, sinister cloud, feelings too fiery and caustic for the ethereal elven nature.

If the other elves were puppies, then he had grown up – and become a deadly mabari.

_Just less hairy._

Of course, she had never seen another Tevinter elf, but considering that, she thought that none of them would ever be similar to this lyrium-tattooed abomination – as he thought of himself, it seemed. The markings on his skin were an integral part of his frame, betraying his emotions clearly. Usually they would reflect light no more than a regular white tattoo, but during battle they shone with a white-blue glow. They would flash, also, if something – a careless word, one spell too many, an accidental touch – for a split second drew him out of his bubble of stoic calm...

“Hawke? You’re staring.”

Aedale blinked quickly.

“What? No. Am not!”

“It’s okay.” A corner of Fenris’ lips rose a millimetre. “Do you need this?” He reached to his neck with a hand clad in a clawed steel gauntlet. The Magister’s Life Amulet was the object of quarrelling for the better part of the previous day; they had taken it from the carcass of one of the night bandits, who in turn, in a miraculous stroke of luck, must have stolen it from the caves of the Tevinter slavers. At first, Fenris had refused to have anything to do with an object that had belonged to a magister; it’d taken great difficulties for Aedale to convince him that he could use its power against its creators. “The sooner I get rid of that thing, the better. You could have said you wanted it for yourself –“

“No, no!”, she protested quickly, watching the steel claw pull at the fragile chain; Fenris did not seem overly fussed over the subtleties like clasps. “You can keep it! I don’t need it, really, I’m okay, it’s all right, no charms for me!”

The elf stopped.

“You are staring at me since the begging of our journey, long and persistently. Why?”

 

She smiled at him with calm eyes, but cursed her lack of stealth skills inside. _Should’ve been a rouge, Hawke... Thank Andraste Varric is not seeing this._ Fortunately for her reputation he was at his place at the moment, at the Hanged Man, meeting people, crafting stories, writing down fictionalised memoirs and scribbling inappropriate comments to her notes.

By the Maker, what was wrong with her?

Fenris must have noticed her hesitation. He raised a corner of his lip in an expression which could be taken as a smile on his face only.

Shit.

_Well, Hawke, if you’ve lost the battle, at least die with your curiosity sated._

“Do you shave?”

Beyond the horrible awkwardness she decided it was worth it. For a second, Fenris’ expression changed into that of an averagely intelligent sheep.

“Pardon?”

“I was just wondering whether you shaved,” she said innocently, as if it were a question about his favourite strategy in Wicked Grace. (Varric had informed her that he had none, but held an ace poker face instead.)

The elf collected himself – Aedale noticed how fast it went – and answered, indifferent:

“No.”

She stared directly ahead and silently started counting the steps. _Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.._

“Could you possibly explain your question?” asked Fenris, evidently more interested in cleaning his right gauntlet. Aedale grinned to herself. _No, but I can make something up for you._

“Last time I visited you, I wanted to find a razor in your bathroom, and your hair on it. I need them to conduct a shady, dark, illegal ritual that, with a little bit of luck, will allow me to blow up the entire Kirkwall, which in turn will enable me to go and hunt hamsters in peace till the end of my days. This whole nobility business is so tiring...”

 _Did I overdo it?_ Something fiery flashed in Fenris’ eyes, and Aedale stopped mid sentence. Maybe suggesting dark rituals with his body parts wasn’t the best idea. _Way to go, Hawke, that went smoothly._ For a split second the air was dense with tension.

But then Fenris’ face twisted into his typical almost-smile, and the mood was comfortable again.

“Blow up the city? How typical. Although I did not expect such thirst for destruction in you, Hawke.”

“You know nothing of me, Fenris.”

_And so the challenge was offered…_

“Yes. For instance, I had no idea you were so fond of staring. At myself.”

_...And accepted._

He knew. Of course he knew. That he decided to bring it up only now did not mean that he’d had no idea of her constant, obsessive observation. He was a fugitive, a slave in hiding – she could only imagine that his nerves were constantly tense, frayed, expecting the tiniest glimpse of distrust or hostility. She wondered how he’d interpreted her constant attention – fascination with something new and strange, lack of trust, or unhealthy curiosity?

“Well, _I_ want to know you better,” she said with a soft tone, which would work on mother better than a rose bouquet on a jealous lover.

He laughed soundlessly – or rather his chest shook in a few short exhales, which at a stretch could be called laughter. Aedale wondered how his _real_ smile would look – honest, open, and unguarded.  

“Not me, but my hygiene habits, Hawke. Tell the dwarf that if this kind of details will find a place in his memoirs, I shall rip his heart out myself.”

“Is this how you treat the people interested in your life?”

A corner of his lip arched again, this time more predatory.

“Yes, exactly.”

His eyes lost focus, as if staring into a far echo of a memory; she shot him a curious glance, wondering what kind of memory she’d just woken. But it didn’t seem to be too painful, as the white lines of lyrium on his skin remained calm.

“Once a dwarven merchant tried to find out a way my tattoos were made. As it turned out, he was interested in… reversing the process.”

“And, naturally, monetise the lyrium acquired?”

“Naturally.”  

“But it’s so much more useful in this way,” she said without thinking and immediately got a long, inquisitive glance of the green eyes.

“It is… useful, yes.”

She nodded, blushing slightly; she did not remember Fenris _looking_ at her like that, ever; not in this way. There had been a lot of shoulder-to-shoulder conversations; lots of staring lightly up and to the left of her face; or the disquieted, distrustful, or brooding glances cast at her in passing.

But now it looked as if Fenris were… _curious._

_Get a grip, Hawke._

_“_ Maybe I really know nothing about you.” He stared into the horizon again, and Aedale blinked with a strange sense of loss.

“Yeah. You don’t even know I want to go keep hamsters!”

“ _Hunt_ hamsters, Hawke. A lie has to be consistent.”

She shrugged, satisfied that he had actually been listening to her rambling. “One out of two. Or both. That story needs alcohol to make sense.”

Fenris nodded, strangely serious out of a sudden. “Speaking of which… There are six bottles of the finest Tevinter wine that Danarius left in the cellar, the very same I was made to serve during greatest feasts. It would be good to finally get to know its taste.”

Aedale blinked, surprised.

“You’re inviting me in for a party?”

“For _wine,_ Hawke.” This journey was apparently a time to discover new sides of Fenris’ – curious, and now… almost _awkward?_ “But yes, I think this is indeed what I am doing.”

“Definitely!” She nodded enthusiastically, and some minor tension disappeared from his face. _Finally,_ she thought. The places of all of her companions were as familiar to her as her own recently acquired Amell residence; she freely popped in and out of Varric’s rooms at the Hanged Man, Merrill’s ever-messy house in the alienage, Anders’ dark but spacious clinic in Darktown… Fenris had been the only one who never made any move to invite her to his home, so the visits in the former residence of a Tevinter magister were cut short to getting the host to a team quest.

She’d never imagined that he could ever feel _awkward_ about inviting her.

“I’ll come,” she assured him again. – But you won’t rip my heart out if I ask something personal?

“I can’t promise that.”

She heard in it the unspoken invitation and threat alike: _you come closer at your own responsibility._

Watching him lengthen his stride to walk up to Merrill and Aveline, his long shadow gliding on the road, she realised he had not been joking.


	2. Hands

The fire crackled quietly at the mantel, casting long shadows on the ruined floor. The warm red shine reflected in the smooth, hand-polished wood of a lute, lighting up the dark shade of its grain, glistening softly on its slick surface. One string was broken.

A spacious, low-ceilinged room was lit only by the whispering flames; Hightown was slowly falling into slumber, and the hustle on the streets was gradually shifting downwards into the lower, darker districts. No more light was seeping through the drawn curtains. What was left of the round tiles on the floor was burnt and blackened; the effect of the Tempest spell cast indoors.     

“Is that a Tevinter thing that a warrior ought never to take their armour off,  not even in their own house?”

“Does it scare you?” Fenris cast her a passing glance in the midst of fetching two wine glasses and a bottle. Carefully, with practiced grace, he pulled out the cork and crushed it between his clawed armoured fingers. He poured the wine into the glasses and then offered one to his companion.

“Scare me? No.” Aedale stretched languidly in the large, rough black leather armchair. – Unsettles a bit, yes. One could wonder what kind of guy needs a full suit of armour to defeat a wine cork... and what does he wear for _champagne?_

“Silk.”

She snorted under her breath.

The armchair was stretched by someone evidently larger than herself – _Fenris wasn’t the first one to live here –_ but for his sake she bit back a comment. The elf looked surprisingly well tonight; the deep shadows on his sunken face were paling in the firelight; the flames cast a warm glow on his dark skin.

He sat down and raised his glass.

“To the hamsters?”

Aedale nodded gravely. “To the hamsters.”

Fenris inhaled the scarlet liquid in the glass and grimaced. – Apologies, Hawke... I have just remembered how much I hate this wine. – Before she could react, he moved suddenly – _Maker he’s quick –_ the glass shone like blood in his hand –

_Crash._

The reflect was stronger than her; in a split second she tensed, balled her fists, blue flames started crawling on them. She raised her head abruptly –

Brittle glass was laying on the burnt floor, splashed with wine like blood; clawed steel gauntlet clenched tightly on the glass stem, so tightly that the sharp clear grains had shot all the way onto her knees. Fenris unclenched his fingers, darkened from the spilt wine, and threw the bottle against the wall.

Two more crashes, of the impact and then the fall of the shattered glass against the floor, became one together with the soft splash of the wine.

The wall reddened. The floor reddened.

Aedale pushed herself back into the armchair.

Fenris looked at her and winced slightly. He stepped back, and the stiffness that for a couple of seconds – _when he was breaking the wine_ – had disappeared from his movements returned immediately. Aedale watched him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, Hawke.”

“N-no problem,” she muttered under her breath. Fenris sat back down and clenched his jaw.

Aedale didn’t tear her eyes from him. Heavy, tight knot in her stomach did not make sense. She had known exactly what he was capable of. She had seen him tear men’s hearts out, slice their bodies apart.

But Fenris’ _fight_ was something completely different – he was focused in a fight, emotionless, as if it were only the body getting engaged in combat, repeating the known, practiced routines. Only... _this sudden flash of hate, so close to the surface_ – it had nothing to do with a fight.  

 Fenris _hated._

_You come closer at your own responsibility._

“Hawke,” spoke the elf gloomily.

She blinked.

“Do not insult my honour. I would not hurt my own guest.”

“I’m not-”

Fenris gestured at her hand. Blue lighting was dancing on her fingers, enshrouding her frame in sparkling protective cocoon. Aedale breathed deeply and with sheer willpower drew the magic from her hands, folding its hot blue ribbons back into the heart.

“It’s... nothing. It’s like magical goosebumps.”   

“Drink your wine,” said Fenris coarsely and glumly turned his gaze to the wall, where the trickling red splashes created a macabre, decadent picture.

A heavy silence fell between them.   

“We can start talking now,” said Aedale after a moment, in a conversational tone. “You can tell me what you’re churning in your head right now, explain why you chucked that bottle against the wall, what you’re thinking that I think, and let me correct it.”

Fenris cast her a dull glance.

“Or we could sit in silence and get irritated at one another. That works too. Like real adults.” Aedale brought the wine to her lips. It was heavy, dry and strong, with a clear, almost predatory smell. She imagined how it would be to pour it evening after evening, year after year, into the glasses of depraved Tevinter mages.

_Maybe I would sincerely hate that smell too._

“How old are you, Hawke?”

“Twenty.” She raised her glass in another toasting gesture. “You?”

“I have no idea.”

She put down the glass. _That’s right. I’ve never even thought that amnesia would have this kind of practical consequences._ Fenris did not have anything, not even a birth date.

The Tevinter wine on her lips tasted bitter.

“Why’d you ask?”

“You’re not... an adult, Hawke. Not by my standards.”

She snorted. “You don’t know how old you are yourself, you cannot play the elder now. It’s not how it works.”

“You grow old quickly on the run.”

“Really?” She looked him straight in the eye, for the first time this evening. “Tell me about it.”

Fenris kept silent.

Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and swollen like a painful blister.

“You think I’m afraid of you,” said Aedale quietly. “I think you’re right. I think. But you’re afraid of me just the same. I think I understand why you threw this bottle.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Hawke,” said the elf brusquely. Aedale shifted her weight to the edge of the armchair and stretched her arm across the table.

“Enough not to be afraid to touch me?”

He drew back sharply. _What the hell am I doing,_ thought Aedale, _Maker, mercy, let me at least look as if I knew._ It wasn’t too late yet, she could nestle herself back in the large, black Tevinter armchair, throw a silly remark, let him retreat into the safety of his dry humour...

But it was only here, in the crash of the shattered bottle, that he was _real. You come closer at your own responsibility..._

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning towards him. “I won’t move. Look. No weapon, no magic. I’m not trying to hurt you. But you’re still afraid to touch my hand. I’m afraid too, Fenris. You hate mages, and I have been running from those who hate mages my entire life. I may protect myself. Do you see?”

He clenched his fists. “What are you playing at, Hawke? Are you trying to humiliate me? I’m not some kind of a wild animal that will jump at you if you don’t tame it.”

“No, you’re not. But you’re paranoid. And so am I.” Aedale drew back onto her chair. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I’m trying to... trust you. Talk to you. Okay? You won’t throw me out of the party because I made you some sparks out of surprise?”

 Fenris lowered his head and massaged his temples. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance: “No, Hawke.”

“That’s exactly how Carver acts like,” Aedale said quietly. “Always. At my every spell he looks at me as if I were... as if I were taking something away from his life. And now he’s in the Chantry and he’ll be hunting apostates. That’s where he’s finally happy, only now that he’s got the possibility to strip me from my magic. He’s found his chance after all...”

Silence fell, interrupted only with the crackling of the fire in the mantel. She didn’t feel the need to fill it with anything else, staring at her wine and not seeing it.

Carver’s letters from the Chantry were short, concise and dry. That she hadn’t taken him with her to the Deep Roads broke the last piece of his impressive manly pride, hidden somewhere under the somewhat coarse sense of humour and brooding stare. She hadn’t seen him since the day he announced his vocation and left the house.    

She felt as if, from the three of the siblings fleeing the burning Lothering, there had been only her left. Mother seemed to share that point of view, closing herself from the inside of her unfinished mansion room – and Aedale’s heart was breaking when she heard the quiet sobbing through the wall.   

Was that how Fenris felt? As if – regardless of how tough was the armour of indifference on the outside – the entire world was against him, as if with his very existence he terrified and destroyed everybody around him?

“Your brother will not hurt you, Hawke,” said Fenris quietly. “Nor will I. We owe you the same blood debt.”

“I know. I would only wish that it weren’t the only thing making you not want to kill me.”

Fenris drew in a sharp breath. Aedale lowered her head. _I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to see his face right now._

“Hawke,” he said slowly, very quietly. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“Do I have any reasons to think otherwise? Fenris, we’ve known each other for almost a year now, we fought the Stone Spirit and the darkspawn horde together, I lose at cards with you, but still, every time there’s talk about mages and magic, you sound as if your blood debt was the only thing between your gauntlet and my heart.”

“I do... not hate you, Hawke,” said the elf quietly.

“I don’t hate you too.” Aedale twisted her lips in a dry smile. “But we don’t trust each other, Fenris, do we? I would... want to. I would want us to trust each other. Less like business partners, and more like... like...”

Something cool touched her palm.

She raised her gaze. Fenris had lain his steel gauntlet against her hand. Aedale held her breath.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeated.

She reached out and touched a piece of armour protecting the wrist. Under the cover of a greeny collar of steel there were straps holding the clawed gauntlet.

Hesitating, she unclasped the first strap with one hand; to reach deeper, she’d have to turn his hand palm up. He let her; and for the first time she saw the white lines on his fingers, shining softly, almost shyly. The third clasp was on the inner side of the wrist, where the lines of lyrium entwined with the blue veins, showing through the skin painfully clearly.

_Maker, please don’t let me scare him off now._

She slided the steel gauntlet off his slim hand. He had long, dark fingers with oval nails. The metal slipped onto the table and clinked quietly. His hand seemed small and delicate, but at its top, under the thin cover of skin, there was a wreathing net of gray-blue veins and arteries, corns and calluses marking his knuckles, and the white lines of lyrium trailing from the bared wrist all the way to fingertips. Her pale, soft hands of a mage looked pathetically weak against this tattooed tangle of tendons and veins.          

Fenris watched her with his eyes darkened.

_Is this the fire in the mantel, or are his hands so warm?_

“Does it... hurt?” she whispered, shyly trailing her finger along the white braid of lyrium on his wrist. “You don’t have to-”

“No, it doesn’t.”

_Holy Andraste, what am I doing?_ wondered Aedale. The lyrium in his skin sang under her fingers, mightier and darker than her potions, sunken in living, pulsating blood... Fenris closed his eyes; she drew back her hand immediately and recoiled.

_“_ I’m sorry! _”_

“You haven’t done anything to me, Hawke.” The elf snatched his gauntlet off the table and moved back onto his chair. “I’m a warrior, not a porcelain doll.” Despite the deceptively calm tone, his eyes were disquieted, flighty, uncertain. Aedale’s head spun.  

“Thank you. Thank you, I know how much it must have meant-”

“You know nothing of me, Hawke,” answered Fenris dryly, but the corner of his lips lifted a millimetre. Her giggle was only a tad nervous.

“That makes two of us. My wine next time?”

“Agreed.”

“You can’t throw it though, you’ll break Bodahn’s heart.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“And... Fenris?”

“What?” – The elf looked at her above the straps of the gauntlet that he was putting back on his hand. Aedale swallowed with difficulty.  

“What am I for you? A mage? A business partner? A friend?”

“What do you think, Hawke?”

“Now? I have no idea,” Aedale answered simply.

Fenris thought about it for a short moment.

“A chance,” he said curtly.

The lines of lyrium on his skin shone slightly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is, briefly speaking, the starting point of this long-suffering slow burn, originally following the in-game romance scene much more closely, but then I rewrote it to emphasise the chemistry between those two. (And subsequently destroyed all continuity within the rest of the story which has not been revised yet, but oh well.) 
> 
> In the next update there'll be the starting point for the plot - plus some singing and rhyme and reference-heavy folk songs sung in absolute drunken ridiculousness, so Maker knows how long it'll take me to translate it, BUT IT WILL BE THERE. STAY TUNED.

**Author's Note:**

> Written 2011-2012, updated 26.03.2016r. As this is a translation of my own work (which I am in the middle of rewriting, too) I am not sure how regular the updates will be, so subscribe if you will, just in case!


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